Trying
by KillerSockz
Summary: Sherlock was in love with John. This much the doctor knew. He's always known, but that was the one thing he could never give to Sherlock. Or so he thought. Johnlock .
1. Chapter 1

A typical Tuesday afternoon found John Watson in an introspective mood. Mostly, he was occupied by the wavering direction of his life. The cases were good fun, certainly (though as a byproduct his recent divorce hadn't been very good, and as far as he could tell, dear Mary was still spreading vicious rumors about him and Sherlock on the Internet). To be living with Sherlock again though… well…

That was good.

Probably.

John wondered how he managed to find the patience for all the peculiarities and annoyances that came with being the best mate of one of the most interesting intelligent and completely mad men in all the world.

For better or worse, he took immense pleasure in discovery of all kinds, no matter the form it came in. Which molds flourished best in what climate? What was a person's deepest darkest secret and how did it make them work? How he could control them with it?

For some reason – well, John suspected he knew the reason - Sherlock took as much pleasure from his hobby as he did from having John 'catch' and then subsequently scold him for trying to cheat in his battle to quit smoking.

Even this infantile, attention-seeking behavior didn't stop him from being a genius though. Sherlock's mind was a wonder. A treasure. A palace, and somehow he had the extraordinary ability to expel any information he found trivial from it (including but not limited to celebrity names, anything concerning their cousins in Canada, and the reason John preferred that body parts not be kept in the fridge).

Often, when on a case or even for no apparent reason at all, Sherlock went for days without sleep, and occasionally even longer without speaking (just like John had been warned). When he decided that he _had_ to eat, only the essential nutrients would be considered for sustenance, and even then only in specific forms he found _palatable_. Indulging the transport any more would apparently bring his mind and body out of the adrenaline-filled "survival mode" he was so accustomed to living in. Maybe that was the secret behind his brilliance – simulating extreme conditions and forcing his body and mind to work double-time _all _the time.

Amazingly, he even managed to live completely abstinent (as did John, but not by choice) and had always done so (if Mycroft's comments in Buckingham Palace could be believed). It wasn't exactly _hard_ to imagine. Sherlock the Virgin. While even a (very very very) heterosexual man like John would admit that Sherlock was rather handsome in certain lights, there _were_ people out there with no interest in sex. Asexuals. Among them Sherlock was probably King. Sherlock wanting sex? Of course not. It was plebeian. It was tedious. It was pointless. People were boring. It would distract him from the Work. Maybe something to do with not wanting to bother placating the appetites of his transport.

Or maybe even Mycroft was right again – perhaps Sherlock was scared.

In any case, it would be unusual to see the world's only consulting detective feigning interest in another person long enough to actually _get_sex out of them (he would bear any cross for the sake of a case, but outside of the Work, Sherlock hated exerting the energy), nor could he imagine another person (other than perhaps dear Molly and The very-atypical Woman) actually wanting to have sex with him after spending a brief period in his presence.

And anyway, the man was married to his Work.

Well.

_Welllll…_

That wasn't completely true.

There was something else.

Something _not completely unthinkable_…

And if it was true, it was certainly in a _very platonic way_.

But still…

Although Sherlock had married the Work, somewhere along the line John had become an essential piece of the machine. A cog in Sherlock's processes. Sherlock had called him a director of light once, and that's what John was. Sherlock's life revolved around the Work, and after they had met it started to revolve around the Blogger as well.

In turn, John's life revolved around his Sleuth. His dedication to Sherlock was the reason behind the divorce, and if he was being _completely_honest with himself, the reason behind every failed relationship of the last seven years.

In that way… they were a bit married. A couple, just like The Woman had said. It _was_ weird, and Sherlock was a bloody awful husband anyhow. Always leaving him at crime scenes. Disturbing his sleep with those late night explosions and that damned violin.

It was easy to see though. Anyone who had been close to Sherlock before and after John's appearance in his life could attest to the changes. There was delicacy now. Mild sanity. Maybe care or kindness, even if it was only present to make John "shut up about it already". There was an enthusiasm for life and a tolerance of the less interesting people.

Well.

_Occasional_ tolerance.

"Boring. Get out."

"Sorry?" poor blonde Abigael-something blinked at Sherlock from John's chair to the left of the fireplace blankly. Sherlock didn't even look up from the obituaries as he took a preparatory breath (the man liked to solve the little secret murders that showed up occasionally).

"You've got heavy bags under your eyes and have spent the duration of your time in this room appraising the value of your surroundings.. Probably an interest in unusual memorabilia. The brands you wear all come from different shops, the majority of which are exclusive brands that spend over fifty million pounds nationally on advertising. Shopping addiction? No. Stiff neck. Gained just over twenty pounds in the last two years. Your desk job wouldn't support a shopping addiction. More likely materialistic. Easily influenced? Also possible. Wearing rather expensive jewelry, but along with cheap polish. You didn't buy the clothing, handbags, or jewelry yourself - he bought it for you, but it's at least a year old. Showing signs of wear and overuse, and you have no idea how to take care of it because you're not used to prolonged use. He hasn't bought you anything in a while. You're worried he's spending on another women".

She stared at him, shock apparent but restrained, "…Sorry?"

He turned to the next page, "Get out".

"But is ee? Cheatin' I mean".

"Sherlock" John piped up with a warning, glaring at the consulting detective from his temporary perch on the couch. He was in the middle of a blog entry about last week's case - some messy business involving an Irish boy's club. Solving it took Sherlock all-of four hours. Completely brilliant.

_Be nice to the poor girl_, thought John towards Sherlock. Sometimes he thought Sherlock could read his mind. Usually it was true. _She doesn't know any better._

A grimace, "No, he's not cheating".

"But how'djya know if ye never saw em?" she eyed John suspiciously, as if he were somehow forcing Sherlock to withhold information. It's exactly the opposite – John knew for a fact that whatever Sherlock was about to say to her, she wouldn't want to hear.

But apparently he was too late to stop it.

"He knows you love expensive things. He's saving up for the perfect ring" Sherlock crinkled his nose, "You have obvious commitment issues. Multiple affairs and lovers on the side. If he's cheating too, that will absolve you of all guilt and you can find a justifiable reason to leave him without feeling bad about possible future losses. Get out of it before it gets messy. Stop wasting my ti-".

She was out faster than Sherlock could take a breath.

Sigh. There couldn't be anyone out there as mad as Sherlock Holmes. There just couldn't, "Not nice"

"Debatable"

"You could have skipped the part about the lovers"

"I wanted her to leave"

Another sigh. John tried to go back to his blog.

"…and I disapprove of the unfaithful" the last word was drawn out, like it left a poor taste on the tongue. A glance in John's direction. An accusation? _We're not really married Sherlock._

But damn John if he didn't find it at least a _little_ endearing.

Sherlock was often trying to isolate John from the outside world. He sulked whenever John went out with Mike or Greg. John suspected Sherlock of orchestrating small and subtle revenges, and taking measures to prevent John's leaving the flat when unnecessary.

Unlike Mary's ostracizing jealousy though, Sherlock's felt like a blanket. It felt like he was trying to monopolize John. It felt like home.

Usually the doctor didn't like to think about why he wouldn't discourage Sherlock's possessiveness, but at this point maybe he had to.

Thus the 'introspective mood'.

Sherlock's brief glance turned into a stare. The intensity burned John's skin. He couldn't tell if it was uncomfortable or exciting.

"Stop whatever you're thinking about, it's distracting".

But in the end it was annoying and John could do well without it. He felt a headache coming on – maybe it was time for another walk.

Of course, John knew Sherlock followed him almost every time he left the apartment – lord knew what he found so interesting – but it was the principle of the thing. A change of pace. A moment to think. God John needed to think, "Going to the shop".

"Batteries," Sherlock pronounced the request in the way only he could. Both offhanded, precise, elongating every syllable, "Every kind they have"

That was going to be expensive. And heavy, "Did you deposit the Burmworth check?" Sherlock had no mind or patience for accounting – upon John's return to 221B Baker Street he'd made John take over the whole ordeal and joined their accounts.

Married indeed…

Sherlock held it up above his head in response. John snatched it, "And the bank then".

The walk to the bank was long, but a straight shot. Just the thing John needed. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, sighed, and thought about Sherlock.

The taller man very rarely shared details about his life before John, but assumptions could be made. He would have had very few friends. He had been raised by his grandmother, after there was some sort of crime in his immediate family. After the little outburst a moment ago, John could assume there had been some sort of infidelity between the parents going on.

_Look at me, Sherlock_, He thought, _I'm deducing __**you**_.

Their first drug bust (and not their last, unfortunately) Sherlock had self-diagnosed himself as a sociopath. Indeed, Sherlock was prone to boredom. Impulsiveness. Manipulation. Schemes. He found empathy difficult. John was no psychologist, but growing up with that personality couldn't have been easy.

A sad, lonely childhood. Attention when he was clever. Adolescence in exile. College years in experimentation. Arrest. The criminal world was a challenge, but instead of rising in their ranks it would be more interesting to conquer them. The Work. Just a distraction from the addiction. But Sherlock couldn't stand to work in the system. There were too many rules. So arbitrary. So limiting. No, he had to make his own way. He made up his own job title. A DI assigned as his keeper, to supply him with matters of interest and prevent a relapse.

This was all conjecture on John's part, of course. Bits and pieces he'd gleaned from Missus Hudson, Mycroft and Lestrade over the years… but it felt like he knew already without asking.

John knew a lot of things without asking.

Sherlock was the most important thing in John's life, and it was pretty plain to him that Sherlock was in love with him. At least to some degree. Whatever degree was possible for him. This much the doctor knew. Perhaps he had always known, but that was the one thing he could never give.

Even if John couldn't return the feelings... he could at least act in a way that didn't hurt him. Sherlock was a surprisingly fragile man. Lonely. Lashing out at a world that rejected him. Desperate for something, but he didn't ask. Maybe he didn't know how to ask, or what to ask for.

Well John didn't know how to either.

He deposited the check and picked up what felt like four stones worth of batteries. Lugged them down the roads. Through the door. Up the steps. Into their _home_.

Unsurprisingly, John found Sherlock in the flat in bedclothes, as if he had never left. Maybe he hadn't been followed this time. Maybe John was the mad one.

The man in question was sitting at their kitchen table peering down into one of his microscopes. He gave no acknowledgement that he knew John was there, and gave no thanks for the batteries that John dumped next to him on the table. John started to arrange them by size and shape, while halfheartedly trying to peek at whatever was in the slide. Something red.

John remembered the times that Sherlock solved cases aloud, stopping just in time for John's exclamation.

Brilliant!

Well he was.

Sherlock would probably deduce the _world_ if it made John praise him.

There were also times when _John_ said something particularly keen. Those were the times it was most obvious that Sherlock loved him. A little.

He would radiate warmth from his cold, cold eyes.

Stolen glances.

Lingering touches.

An excel spreadsheet on Sherlock's desktop labeled "JW".

Maybe Sherlock wished he could take back what he said that first night. The brief period where Sherlock wasn't interested.

Maybe he wished John would love him back.

Maybe he wished that John didn't know at all.

_You think I'm so unobservant,_ John thought, moving behind Sherlock's chair, _but I know you._

For a long moment, John considered the still, broad shoulders before him. Angular. Tense. The things those shoulders had carried. With and without John. They'd probably go through a lot more in the years to come. Those delicate, sad shoulders always holding up the world.

This man had saved thousands of lives.

He had saved John's life.

A warm wave of affection blossomed in John's chest. This couldn't go on.

He let a sigh out through his nose, frustrated.

Fuck it.

Slowly, the Blogger slid his hands over the shoulders, feeling them stiffen at the unexpected contact, and rested his chin on the Detective's head. It smelled of warmth, dust and walnut.

"Not a word," he said it sternly. It was imperceptible, but he could feel his voice shake. Sherlock probably noticed.

John could actually _feel_ Sherlock thinking. Panicked brainwaves bursting out and exploding. He thought he felt a tremble in the shoulders.

And then suddenly he was being kissed.

John was sure he hadn't seen or felt Sherlock move, but in an instant he had hands cupping his cheeks and the softest lips the world had ever known pressing themselves against his.

His heart thrummed. What had he done. _What had he done_. There was no turning back now. Oh god. He wasn't ready. He didn't know anything about being gay, no matter what they say about army boys. What was he supposed to do here you can't just flip a switch for that sort of thing. Oh god what was John going to do now dear god dear god.

The panic was setting quite nicely as Sherlock pulled away. There was a question in his eyes, behind fluttering lashes. And vulnerability. Fear.

Oh Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, John was so sorry. John had made him wait. He'd made Sherlock wait and he'd made him suffer.

The truth was that John Watson would do anything for this madman. It had always been that way and it always would be. Swallowing, he steeled his resolve and went in for another kiss, thanking the heavens above that Sherlock didn't sport any kind of facial hair.

There couldn't be anyone out there as mad as Sherlock Holmes. There just couldn't.

That was, of course, unless you considered the man who was trying to love him.


	2. Chapter 2

"I need to conduct an experiment for a case"

John looked up from his morning paper to find Sherlock hovering over him juuuust a little too close. With the abrupt proximity, John found he had to consciously fight an increased heart-rate. They hadn't been this close since John's temporary lapse in sanity. In fact, there had been no mention of it, and no progress towards or away from the subject for a full seven days.

He coughed, feeling a little awkward, "Well don't let me hold you back".

Sherlock's lips pursed momentarily. The dramatic swoop of his Cupid's Bow disappeared and reappeared in the crease, "It requires your participation".

John swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to keep his eyes trained off the lips, "No. Absolutely not," he wasn't getting mixed up in another mess like last Christmas. Harry still hadn't forgiven him.

"…Please".

It wasn't a plea. Sherlock lay the word down like a fact in a low, grave tone. John was needed. Only he would do. There was no way he would be able to refuse. Balls.

"…Fine,"

"Good," an excited smile. The tall man straightened his posture and composed himself, "Good. We leave at once,".

John folded the paper and mentally prepared himself for the worst, "Where?"

"Scotland Yard. Not a moment to lose,"

Sherlock whisked John down the stairs and into a taxi in a matter of seconds. John was halfway through settling into his customary window gazing routine, when he felt Sherlock...

_Ballsballsballsballsballsba-_

John felt it grip his heart with its cold, constricting iron. Sherlock's hand snaked gently across the inside of his palm, pressing into it and interlocking their fingers, Something horrible and reflexive like true _dread_ spread like wildfire throughout John's entire being. _Shit_, "Sherlock?"

"For the _case_," answered the man simply. His eyes were flicking between the cabbie and the windows, as if he were looking for something. John heard Sherlock's phone buzzing away in his pocket, but the detective didn't seem interested in it.

Christ. So that was it. John shamed himself for a good long moment for his reaction. Hadn't he resolved to commit himself to… this… this… this _thing_ a week ago? He cast a guilty glance to his left, but it wasn't met with any reaction.

If John couldn't handle pretending to hold hands for a case, how was he going to handle all the realities of a muss-and-tuss homosexual relationship? He had spent nearly his whole life not giving a damn about homosexuality aside from advocating it and vigorously denying the numerous accusations of it. Admittedly he had gotten a little overly defensive, both now and in the past.

John bit his lip and held fast to Sherlock's cold, clammy hand. The world lurched violently around them.

"John"

"Hm? Yes?"

Sherlock paused, as if expecting something. John's heart beat wildly, "...We've arrived,"

Ah. Yes. Of course. John was on the sidewalk side. He was expected to get out first. The cabbie was eyeballing them warily, "Yes… yes one moment"

Sherlock had apparently already paid the man, so John pulled out of the cab and stood there, waiting for an indication that the experiment was over and they should disentangle their hands, but Sherlock just kept on going. He gave John one of those fleeting, warm smiles, then half-pulled him into the building, the elevator, and finally Greg's office – stares followed them the whole way, and John's ears _burned_ as he closed the door behind them. Sally Donovan had looked like she was about to have a laugh.

"Oi!" the DI spat out, spraying a little pudding over his desk. His feet were up on his desk and there were wrappers to convenience store food littered all over his desk. Apparently they caught him at the tail-end of a lunch hour, "_Don't you lot knock?_"

John saw the detective's eyes fall to their joined hands as Sherlock pulled them up to the greying man's desk. He shot John a look, but John just shrugged with his free shoulder. Sherlock smiled quickly and casually said, "Nice to see you too Lestrade. Just dropped by to return something of yours".

From past experience, John recognized Sherlock's 'casual' voice as another 'calculating' voice. Apparently so did Lestrade. Sherlock lobbed one of the pick-pocketed IDs onto the desk, and Greg snatched it up with his eyes narrowed, "...why are you _really_ here?"

"Why, detective," Sherlock said amiably, "We were simply taking a stroll and decided to stop by and say hullo,". John wondered what this could have to do with the case. Maybe Sherlock was trying to extort information, "How is Mycroft?"

Lestrade's eyebrow twitched, "How'm I supposed to know? He's _your_ brother!"

"Oh I'm _sure _you keep in touch, the two of you have _so_ much to talk about,"

"…_out of my office_. John, nice seeing you".

John tried to ignore the incredulity of the situation. The world felt like it was spinning, "You too Greg". He considered that perhaps the case had something to do with Mycroft. Or even with _Greg_...

"Afternoon Detective," Sherlock smiled pleasantly and pulled on John's hand to make their exit. John shot Greg a furtive glance on the way out, which was responded to with an excellent mime of a 'what the fuck' expression.

They found Sargent Donovan on the other side of the door, with nearly the whole department milling about conspicuously around, peeking at the pair of them.

"Hullo _freak_," she smiled, hostility not even almost concealed.

Sherlock returned her fake friendly expression in kind, but his grip tightened on John's hand, "Afternoon Sally".

"So what's all this?" she motioned to them with her head, arms crossed against her chest.

John felt himself getting hot, this time for a different reason. He felt... indignant, "None of _your_ business, certainly".

"Clearly," she purred, sniggering. Smug. Horrible. Sherlock pulled John towards the elevator, but John didn't break angry eyecontact with her until the doors closed behind them.

He sighed, trying to calm down, "What did you _do_ to that woman?"

Sherlock let out a singular chuckle, "I seduced her".

_He what?_

"You _seduced Sally Donovan_?"

"Not difficult, I assure you"

"But _why_?!"

"She was an instrument in a prank I played on the Detective Inspector in my first year under his _supervision_," he drawled, "Made a fool out of her in front of the whole department. She's never forgiven me".

They paused, shared a look, and burst into an uncontrollable giggling fit that had always characterized their companionship.

Whilst clutching at a stitch in his side, John realized something. They were holding hands, but nothing had changed. John was entering a homosexual relationship, but he would still have his best friend by his side. Now more than ever. Maybe for the rest of his days.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

He grinned up at the taller man, still laughing. Sherlock grinned back. John grabbed him by the scarf and pulled him down for a kiss. Their teeth clashed as they giggled into each-others mouths. John felt his anxiety fly away, and his love for the man who was now clutching at his coat soared. He pulled away by the barest millimeter, still feeling the hot press of Sherlock's lips against his own, "Let's go home".

"I was going to parade you through a park next," admitted Sherlock, panting slightly, eyes dazed, "After that the Diogenes club. Angelo's. The bank. Perhaps the cinema,"

"You _nutter_," John laughed again, "This wasn't an experiment at all".

"It was an experiment of a kind," a smirk.

Another chuckle, "No case then?"

"Not one you'd be able to put on your _blog_" Sherlock smiled, and moved to press their lips together again, "The case of the nervous Doctor".

Sherlock backed John up and pressed him softly against the wall with his own body flush against him as they kissed. His mouth was clumsy, inexperienced, but his hands were _clever_. Sherlock ran those clever, clever hands over every part of John's person that he possibly could while their lips moved against one another. The kiss was like waves on a beach - gentle, unexpected, waning, crashing, and _sure_. The hands caressed his face. His back. His shoulders. His scalp. His chest. His bum. His neck. His hips. His hands. Sherlock stopped there momentarily and seemed to get an idea. He grasped John's hands tightly, this time interlacing his fingers with both of them, and John found himself being snogged within an inch of his life with his hands pinned above his head, straining against his zip. Sherlock's arousal was hard and hot against John's stomach, and John's was being cruelly subjected to friction against Sherlock's leg.

"Home," he gasped into the kiss. _God. Take me home. Now._

Sherlock chuckled. The vibrations of his deep voice rippled against John's lips.

The elevator doors opened, and they ran.


End file.
